


Audition Tape

by fengirl88



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26342017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: New Burbage, 1982. An aspiring director sends Oliver a videotape of his work, with unintended consequences.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Audition Tape

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Tape challenge at fan_flashworks; there is a longer fic in the works about the production mentioned here. 
> 
> thanks to theicescholar for Canada-picking and to him, kalypso, owl_by_night and the dsc6d bigbang Discord for encouragement with this 'verse.

“Good morning, Mr Welles,” the new girl says, almost tripping over herself in her eagerness. “Here’s your mail!”

“Good morning,” Oliver responds automatically, though it really, really isn’t.

Of all the times for his PA to go into premature labour, the week of the board meeting about next year’s programme is the most inconvenient. Stalwart to the last, dear Judy managed to ring the temp agency before getting into the ambulance, so at least Oliver’s not completely without support. And this girl, what’s her name, Anna, seems organized as well as keen, not like that dreadful woman the agency sent the last time Judy went on holiday.

The mail is the usual heap of requests, invitations, and ill-advised attempts at self-promotion. Today’s offerings on that front include a videotape from a final year student at the University of Toronto, who appears to be labouring under the delusion that Oliver needs to see his “authentic” production of _Philoctetes_ , “filmed live in the unique setting of the amphitheatre at Epidaurus”. The covering letter hardly bodes well, and the image on the badly photocopied programme is the definition of cliché: a wild-haired, wild-eyed, almost naked young man screaming at the sky. 

Clichéd, but not entirely unappealing. Oliver buzzes through to Anna and tells her to bring him some coffee. He can always tell in the first ten minutes whether a director has a spark of the divine fire, and there’s no harm in taking a quick break from poring over spreadsheets and budget plans for next week. Honestly, what is the point of New Burbage having a business manager if the Artistic Director still ends up drowning in paperwork? He’ll give Angus Blakely’s videotape the time it takes to drink his coffee and perhaps nibble on one of those After Eights (an unexpected inclusion in this year’s Christmas hamper from May Silverstone).

Blakely’s production is every bit as uninspired as his letter suggested: “authentic” apparently means the usual sheets-and-safety-pins costumes and some tinny recorded music that’s probably supposed to sound like an aulos and just sounds horribly off-key. God knows why they tried to do Greek ritual dancing with only five in the chorus, which looks worse than nothing in a space the size of Epidaurus. Heracles is solidly competent; Odysseus, a skinny dark-haired boy with his face set in a perpetual sneer, is too mannered by half. Neoptolemus is played by a girl – an odd choice, since the production’s not doing anything with it. Ellen Fanshaw. She’s _very_ good. Almost persuasive enough as a young man to stir a flicker of interest in Oliver. The programme says she’s already at drama school – Vancouver Playhouse – so what’s she doing in a U of T student production? He puts an asterisk by her name – one to consider for next summer’s list of apprentices.

But it’s the boy playing Philoctetes that Oliver can’t take his eyes off. He can’t be more than twenty, and yet it’s all there: the crushing weight of loneliness and pain, the incredulous, tearful joy at hearing his own language spoken again by a voice other than his own for the first time in ten years, the searing rage at the comrades who deserted him in his agony. The raw, desperate need as Philoctetes clasps Neoptolemus’ hand and begs the young man to rescue him, not to leave him imprisoned on this island with only the beasts for company, takes Oliver’s breath away. He watches the tape to the end, then rewinds and watches it through again.

“Mrs Silverstone called,” Anna says. “I said you were watching a play and she said to tell you she thinks she’s found a sponsor for the new season.”

“Oh good,” Oliver says, and writes _Geoffrey Tennant – final year, U of T?_ on his list of urgent tasks.

“Oh, Mr Welles, you didn’t drink your coffee! I can make you another.”

It’s true, Oliver discovers. He also seems to have eaten nearly half a box of After Eights, and has the beginnings of a sugar headache between the eyes.

“Should I get Mrs Silverstone for you?”

“Yes,” Oliver says. “No. Wait.”

He shuffles through the pile of letters and cards on his desk and – yes! There it is, the invitation to U of T’s annual drama showcase next week. It’s the night before the board meeting, so he’d been going to skip it. The thought makes him breathless.

“Answer this first, would you?” he says. “Tell them I’ll be delighted. And bring me some aspirin.”


End file.
